These processes of erasure, which begin during war and expand in its aftermath, remind me of Manila during the Second World War, a city whose colonial legacy I have studied in recent years. Few buildings remain from the Spanish and American periods (the Philippines was a Spanish colony from the 16th to the end of the 19th century, and a U.S. colony during the first half of the 20th century), making it difficult for scholars and researchers to study its past and understand the country’s complex adaptation to its climate.

During World War II, bombs dropped by Imperial Japan targeting Allied Forces destroyed much of Manila, including Intramuros, its “Walled City.” Although the Indigenous building culture of the Philippines had been previously obliterated, in part, by the U.S., and by Spain before that, Manila’s architecture still retained vernacular elements and Chinese construction techniques that locals had learned to refashion for the tropical environment.

The ferociousness of the war, followed by the growth of Manila’s population after the country’s independence from the U.S., changed the urban landscape and eliminated previous layers of the built environment in a fast-paced process of modernization. Of Intramuros, only the external wall and churches remained; even though reconstruction efforts began in 1946, it remains incomplete. Today, the site includes a mix of Postmodern buildings wrapped with folkloric Spanish colonial and Chinese ornamentation, as well as empty lots and temporary construction.

In the Ermita area of Manila, buildings with shade-creating facades sit adjacent to newer air-conditioned towers. Photo © Alberto Martínez García, click to enlarge.

This palimpsest not only makes the task of studying urban environments difficult for scholars, it hastens a process of architectural simplification that is tied to how human bodies perceive climate and thermal comfort. In Ermita, a district in central Manila, bombarded buildings were later replaced with mid-rise concrete structures that were protected from exterior conditions through a variety of sun-shading louver systems. As the neighborhood decayed in the last quarter of the 20th century, it became a red-light district, and many of these structures were abandoned. In recent decades, they were replaced by anonymous towers clad in mirrorlike glass that achieve climate control through central air-conditioning or window units, without any passive-design strategies in mind. Similar buildings have also risen in high-end residential neighborhoods such as Makati, Taguig, and Pasig, as well as in other parts of the world, regardless of local climate.

This process follows a series of “flattening” operations that reduce the complexity of the facade. The colonial building stock featured deep open-air galleries and arcades that resembled the Indigenous vernacular that came before it. This was followed by concrete brises-soleil, sometimes covered with tropical plants. Lastly, unitized single- or double-pane curtain walls completely seal buildings from the outdoor environment. This process has run parallel to a narrowing ideal of thermal comfort, encouraged by code. In 1966, the American Society of Heating, Refrigerating and Air-Conditioning Engineers (ASHRAE) released ASHRAE Standard 55: Thermal Environmental Conditions for Human Occupancy, setting the basis for acceptable indoor temperatures through mechanical systems and air-conditioning. By the early 1990s, ASHRAE 55 had infiltrated the Philippines and other Southeast Asian countries, and temperature and relative humidity were set at a range between 75 and 82 degrees Fahrenheit, and 30 to 60 percent.

Before the advent of air-conditioning, thermal comfort was an architectural problem—architects used facades and consecutive spaces to passively adjust sunlight, heat, humidity, glare, and visibility. By the end of the 20th and beginning of the 21st century, thermal comfort was an engineer’s problem, reduced to pipes, ducts, and filters, all tucked away and creating artificial environments with few differences between regions or climates.

The establishment of the U.S. Green Building Council (USGBC) in 1993 and the development of the point-based Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) green-building rating systems have further exacerbated the ubiquity of the built environment. The first LEED-certified building in the Philippines was completed in the 2010s; by 2022, the Philippines was among the top 10 countries with the most LEED-certified square feet. From massing, material, and facade standpoints, these buildings share many similarities and could appear anywhere. They present a veneer of environmental responsibility for projects that often have substantial carbon footprints, and incentivize generic solutions to otherwise localized challenges.

Although this condition persists around the world, the example of Manila’s urban development before and after World War II is an unsettling one. It demonstrates how not only war, but the reconstruction in its wake create a break with the past. Such a disjunction can exacerbate an imbalance between global standards and place-based needs. In the Philippines, both Indigenous people and colonials learned over centuries to adapt structures to the tropical climate. That is not to downplay the consequences of colonialism but rather to highlight how transnational protocols can have an impact equal to or greater than local ones in shaping cities, and uproot vernacular particularity.

In today’s environment of simultaneous wars and escalating conflict, it’s worth considering how cities historically handled reconstruction. When cities currently being devastated are rebuilt, they will need to respond to the perilous climate situation. LEED certification may seem like an appealing solution, but it may also come at the expense of learning from the past. Looking at how territories have historically adapted to the environment can better inform us about how to reconstruct an uncertain future.